


Ghost Stories

by kesomon



Category: Ghost Rider (2007), The Lone Ranger - All Media Types
Genre: Bad First Impressions, Crossover, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 21:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14144769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kesomon/pseuds/kesomon
Summary: It was a dark and stormy night when the stranger came to town.





	Ghost Stories

_It was a dark and stormy night when the stranger came to town._

_The streets were empty of people, the rain driving in a deluge that turned dusty road to sticky sludge, miring cart and horse alike to a standstill. Lamplight burned hot in the windows, humanity rallying against the darkness as best it could. No one was out and about if they had to be._

_Ms. Evelyn had to be, and cursed the devil that had summoned this storm from Hell as she hurried home along the boardwalk, petticoats plucked high and yet still collecting mud as she dodged the drip and drain of waterspouts. Her shopping was tucked under an arm, medicine and care for the fever-ridden child she had at home, but home was a mile away and she’d be lucky if the buggy could make it, let alone convince the livery to spare a horse to pull it. She paused, out of boardwalk and sufficient cover, and grit her teeth at the distance of swamp she’d have to cross to reach the safety of the stables._

_Saying a prayer to the Lord, she made to step forward, only to leap back with a gasp, as a great clap of lightning split the sky, lighting up the boardwalk like the brightest sun at noon._

_It also illuminated a figure on horseback, standing at the end of the lane, that surely had not been there a moment before._

_The figure moved forward at a steady pace, the great, pale horse unencumbered by the muck of the road, sure-footed as on smooth cobblestone. The rain seemed not to bother its rider, cloaked as he was in a dark oilskin that draped in folds over his torso and legs. A white hat brimming the rider’s brow, dipped low against the rain, covered the rider’s face from sight, but as the figure drew nearer, that brow lifted, turning to look in Ms. Evelyn’s direction._

_Ms. Evelyn gasped, for beneath that brim, there was no face. Only a pair of eyes, burning bright embers of firelight against a void of black, staring into her very soul._

_She screamed._

 

“...You know,” the man whose identity was known only to a chosen few to be John Reid, but whom the rest of the world would know only as the _Lone Ranger_ , placed his elbow on the crossbar of the jail cell and rested his chin against his palm, “I’ve been behind bars quite a few times in my life, before misunderstandings about this mask have been cleared up. Yet I have to say, Sheriff, this is the first time I’ve been arrested for ‘ _inciting a town to riot._ ’”

“Yes, well,” the sheriff gave a cough and shuffled a few papers on his desk, “Things have been awful odd around here lately, with the fever going 'round, and the weather; you can’t blame folks for being a bit superstitious. Man like you comes riding out of the dark on a pale horse, wearing that mask, night like tonight, it’s bound to frighten anyone.”

“True, and I am sorry about that,” the Ranger said, “though it’s also the first time I’ve been mistaken for some sort of demonic... _ghost rider._ ” He sounded rather bemused about that, recalling the woman he’d met on the street. She’d taken one look at him in his rain-coat and mask and started shrieking like the denizens of Hell were upon her; indeed, it had drawn the crowds from the sanctuary of their shops and saloons, looking for trouble and finding the Ranger instead. Only the good fortune of the sheriff’s arrival had prevented things from escalating.

And then he’d been promptly arrested. Tonto was _never_ going to let him live this down.

“It’s a local legend,” the sheriff explained, rising to join the Ranger at the cell. “They call him the _devil’s bounty-hunter_ , a demon with a flaming skull who rides a pale horse and comes for the souls of the wicked.”

The Ranger blinked at the description, and repeated, with some incredulity, “Flaming _skull_?”

“A legend, like I said,” the sheriff defended of his town, holding up his hands, “One that blows itself further out of proportion every time there’s a storm and too many folks stuck at the saloon. Don’t worry; once the storm blows over and day breaks, people’ll calm down.”

“Really,” the Ranger said flatly, “and why is that?”

“Because,” the sheriff shrugged, “the Rider only hunts at night. After dawn, folks are safe. And so are you, for the night; you’ll stay right here where no one can get any bright ideas. Sleep tight, now.” And he tipped his hat to the man in the cell before leaving.

The Ranger’s shoulders slumped with a sigh. Regretting the choice he’d made to come into town, and thinking longingly of the warm, dry beds at the hotel he’d intended to stay at, he turned back around to eye the jail cell cot with some distaste. Molded and flea-ridden, most certainly. He spread his rain-coat out as a barrier, what little good it would do, and laid down to get some shut-eye. Tonto would come looking for him in the morning.

 

“So let me get this straight. They thought you were a _ghost_?” Tonto was grinning like he had a few of his own demons on his shoulders, as Silver and Scout picked their way gingerly through the muddy road in the post-storm, clear-sky light of morning, loaded down with fresh supplies and the pardons of the Sheriff.

“No, they thought I was some local legend about a _ghost rider_ ,” the Ranger explained patiently, scratching at a flea bite on his neck with frustration. “All because some woman let her superstition get the best of her on a dark night.”

“Oh I have to agree with the town,” Tonto said with mock solemnity, nodding, “You _very scary._ Stop scratching,” and he reached across to whack the Ranger’s arm with a pouch from the saddlebags. “They will only fester and fever. Use aloe.”

“Next time, _you_ go get the supplies, and _I’ll_ come rescue you from jail-house fleas, how about that?” he applied the precious liquid to his neck and sighed with relief, ignoring Tonto’s obvious amusement. “Thanks.”

“Fleas do not bite me,” the smug fink said, “They like your white-man’s blood better.”

It was annoying because it was true; wherever they bedded down in less-tolerable locales, it was always the Ranger who woke looking pox-stricken for all the vermin he'd fed in the night, and Tonto as smooth as baby's skin.

For a moment the Ranger entertained the idea of shoving Tonto off of Scout into the mud. Fortunately for his friend, the whinny of a horse drew the Ranger’s attention before he could put action to the thought, and he looked over his shoulder. Tonto also turned to look, drawing Scout to a stop.

On the ridge where the shadows still held sway, a figure on horseback was watching them. For the distance and the shadows, the Ranger could not see a face, only a hint of pale skin beneath a dark hat. The figure gave off a strange, flickering glow, as though illuminated in the red-gold fire of the morning light - yet the sun had not yet reached that spot, and if the Ranger concentrated, he thought could make out the spit and spark of flames licking the brim of the rider's hat. Yet there was no smoke, and no distress from the rider, so it must've been illusion...surely.

The horse reared with another whinny, pawing the air with its hooves once, before wheeling to disappear over the rise, escaping the sun as it crept along the ridge.

The Ranger and Tonto shared a long, silent look.

“How about we ignore what just happened and leave?” the Ranger offered.

“I think that’s wise, _ke-mo sa-bee_.”

With a light slap of the reins, the Lone Ranger and his friend Tonto urged their horses into a gallop, leaving behind the town of San Venganza and the unusual legends it held to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic supposes a couple of things.
> 
> \- The Lone Ranger and Tonto can be taken from any canon the reader chooses. However, I wrote this after watching the Moore/Silverheels era duo on tv, so I tried to match that flavor.
> 
> \- Carter Slade is taken from the 2007 Ghost Rider movie with Nicholas Cage, as the wild-west era Rider. It is never specified who Slade was before he became a Ghost Rider, nor is it specified how San Venganza got on the Devil's radar in the first place or how long he was making contracts; it's easily feasible that it was a nice place at first, started falling on 'hard times', and eventually turned into the hellpit that caused Slade to go rogue. 
> 
> Therefore in this fic, Slade is acting as sheriff in San Venganza during the day, still in his ex-texas ranger mortal lifespan, and as the Rider he hunts bad guys in the night, while the Devil is probably 'buying' people's souls in exchange for saving their loved ones from fevers and also as protection against the 'Rider' - ironic.
> 
> I do not know anything about Ghost Rider canon beyond that movie, but this is a short fic and silly. I hope everyone enjoyed it.


End file.
